Organ Recital
by watercolor wasteland
Summary: "Mr. Jaegerjaquez, this is your eighth time in the emergency room in thirty days." — GrimmHime, AU.
1. Chapter 1

**title:** organ recital  
 **fandom:** bleach  
 **characters/pairings:** grimmjow jaegerjaquez/orihime inoue  
 **rating:** t/pg-13  
 **warnings:** violence  
 **summary:** "mr. jaegerjaquez, this is your eighth time in the emergency room in the last thirty days."  
 **a/n:** can you even believe i'm writing for the same stupid ship _eight years later_? i love them. i will love them until the day i die.

anyway, this was inspired by tumblr user xaquaangelx's au prompt "i do stupid shit and you're my doctor" and really, is there anything more perfect for them. i normally like to put a lot of effort into what i write but this is just a fun thing to pass the time with between my more legit stuff lel

disclaimer that i'm a speech-language pathology major and am only tangentially educated in medicinal matters, and despite my research into the basics as well as how japan's healthcare system works, there will be discrepancies. so to all my med friends out there, please suspend your disbelief.

enjoy!

* * *

The first time he stumbles into the emergency room in the dead of night _(so quiet, so silent she often swears she can hear ghosts)_ , Orihime Inoue knows it will not be the last.

She had quietly filed this fact away with the slightest tinge of resignation. She has paid her dues in Karakura Hospital long enough to be able to discern the repeat offenders, so to speak, from the rest of them. She bears no grudge, no bitterness to speak of against these people; they are either the chronically clumsy, incurable in their lack of grace, or the lost souls, typically young teens, who fraternize with the wrong crowd. It only makes her regret that she can't do more for them.

But this man, with his blue hair and wild eyes to match, is going to be a piece of work, and she knows it.

She was discussing a patient's discharge with Hanatarou, the trepidatious intake nurse on this particular night, near the emergency room's lobby when she noticed him. The left side of his face was bleeding as he staggered in, littered with scratches and cuts, and several layers of flesh were missing from the majority of his left arm. His jeans were ripped, his white shirt reflecting the state of his face with blood and dirt stains. It was one of the grislier injuries she's had to bear witness to so far this year, to be sure; what surprised her more, however, was the way he simply walked in, limping slightly, without any ado at all. As though it were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

He limped toward the receptionist's desk (completely ignoring the poor girl who was actually there) and immediately averted his gaze toward her and Hanatarou as they were preparing to resume their normal positions.

He lifted his arm up, showcasing the gruesome abrasion.

"Hey. Fix it."

He somehow managed to get those words out, his voice low and brusque, before nearly collapsing.

And that is how she ended up here, making the arrangements for minor surgery and priming him for it in the hallway as she waits for Isane Kotetsu's confirmation before heading straight into the procedure room. They would normally rush the patient right in after triage, but the lack of available anesthesiologists is delaying the process, much to Orihime's discontent. Thankfully, her charge isn't in a position where a few minutes' delay will endanger him; he's conscious, coherent, and his vitals are stellar for someone in his position.

He's settled into the bed, and she stands awkwardly next to him. The emergency ward is eerily quiet, so quiet that she can hear his labored breathing clearly, so quiet that she can vaguely hear her heart beating steadily, resonating in her ears.

"So, Mr. Ja-Jag…" She glances down at his intake form, growing slightly flustered as she trips over his impossible surname. Jaegerjaquez? That didn't even begin to address his equally peculiar first name. Grimmjow. Grimmjow. Grimmjow. She turns it over in her mind, briefly marveling at how someone with a name like _that_ came to be hanging around a modest town like Karakura. It appears that Hanatarou had some difficulty reconciling his name too, if the uncharacteristically jerky katakana is any indication.

"Jaegerjaquez. Jag-er-jack," he rasps, clearly attempting to stifle the pain threatening to leak into his voice. He looks at her critically from the bed as he attempts to shift his position without disturbing his limbs.

"Mr. Jag-er-jack. Right! I'm Dr. Inoue, the emergency physician. It looks like you have a road rash injury from a motorcycle incident. Is that right?"

He gives a noncommittal nod.

"It also looks like you have a fractured fibula according to the x-rays. We'll have to set that back into place. The abrasion is a little severe for an injury of its type, so we'll be debriding and maybe grafting it, if it comes to that. That is, we'll remove and replace the damaged tissue. It's pretty simple and shouldn't take too long, so you have nothing to worry about," she says with a smile, trying her best to remain cheerful in the face of his unforgiving stare and the sheer draining essence of the 4 AM hour.

"Goddamn it," he mutters as he closes his eyes. "Do whatever you have to do, lady. Just stop runnin' your mouth about it."

Ah, one of those patients. One of the first things Orihime learned when she was doing her rotations - when she was just a little saner and more starry-eyed than she is now - was how to deal with Those Patients. Those Patients regularly tested the boundaries of her saintly patience and determination. She would initially shrink back and retreat, sometimes taking a few minutes out of her day for muffled sobbing in a supply closet. She couldn't understand; it was too unfair, it was too cruel for people to treat the ones who were only trying to heal them that way.

"I don't understand, Dr. Unohana," she finally admitted one day after her rotations were over. "Why do they act like that? I'm only trying to help..."

"Remember that anger doesn't usually occur for its own sake, Orihime. It comes from hurt, frustration - from fear," she reminded her. As the leading physician of the hospital - more accessible and prominent than the nebulous and elusive Ryuuken Ishida (who, it seems, despises a sizable portion of his hospital staff for some inexplicable reason that she has yet to discover) - Retsu Unohana is the beacon of professionalism that all its young students strive to emulate; her technical prowess is matched only by her tenderness in handling even the most cantankerous of charges.

Orihime took her superior's words to heart—

(although with the recent rumors regarding Unohana's prior endeavors weaving their way through the hospital's various departments, Orihime isn't quite sure what to think of her patient relations skills anymore)

and found that she was not only able to steel herself against (some of) her patients' acerbic natures, but also ameliorate them.

Mr. Jumping Jack here, however, appears to be a little different from the patients she's come into contact with so far in her two years as an actual physician. She hazards a glance at him from over her clipboard. His subdued ferocity is nigh tangible, and there's a restrained rage in his deep blue eyes. He isn't like his peers in the Those Patients category in this regard; he doesn't lash out, doesn't spit demands and subsequent insults in her direction.

And yet, there's something much more threatening beneath the surface. Despite her commitment to proper bedside manner, she can barely bring herself to look at him at all, let alone in the eye. If her hunch is correct and he does end up back here soon enough, he likely won't be so calm next time, she thinks with a frown.

She can hear quick footsteps echoing in the long, barren corridor, and she sees Isane heading over to where Orihime is tending to their lovely new patient to the best of her ability.

"We're ready, Dr. Inoue. Kiyone will monitor him while you prep yourself," the head anesthesiologist says, surveying him all the while. She raises an eyebrow quizzically, but makes no further remarks.

"Thanks, Dr. Kotetsu. I'll be right there." She passes her clipboard over to Isane's sister as she saunters into the room, looking as full of her typical zest as possible for someone completely unaccustomed to the graveyard shift. Orihime turns to Grimmjow and beams. "It'll be over in no time. No worries!"

His eyes are still closed, but he's still cognizant and coherent, if his furrowed brow is any indication. He shifts slightly, and not a single inch of him looks anything but tense.

"I get the point. Just patch me the fuck up, all right? Christ, docs always love to hear themselves talk," he mumbles. He opens one eye lazily and looks at her, a bitter smirk playing on his lips. "Or is it just you?"

She feels the heat rise to her cheeks as the corner of her lip twitches ever so slightly, though her smile doesn't falter. "It's probably just me."

Orihime starts walking with Isane, who had been glaring at him the entire time.

"Let's get this done and hope he never comes back," Isane says, scowling. "I knew he would be a problem before even I heard him speak. I have no patience for men like that."

She acknowledges her words with a slight nod, but she finds herself unable to endorse them.

"We can only hope."

* * *

"Mr. Jaegerjaquez is awake now, doctor!"

Kiyone finds her as she eats her first meal — though a small bowl of bland rice isn't exactly her idea of a meal — in the physicians' break room. It's minimalist and clinical, just like everything else in the hospital, but Orihime couldn't bear the thought of sitting in the grim, minuscule room that passed for a cafeteria here, with its morose blue walls and lifeless white linoleum flooring. Her eyes are beginning to burn with exhaustion; her shift began at midnight, and it's just now pushing 9 AM. With only another hour until she was free, she can practically feel soft pillows beneath her head, warm sheets and blankets wrapped around her like a cocoon, in the peace and quiet of her apartment…

"Dr. Inoue?"

She snaps out of her reverie and looks up at Kiyone, who is standing in the doorway with her head slightly tilted. "He's awake?"

"Yep. He's in the PACU, and it looks like he'll be ready to go in a couple hours," she explains. An even mix of apprehension and disdain suddenly darkens her expression; she leans forward and drops her voice, whispering conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I wouldn't spend too much time with him. He looks like he's gonna wreck the next person who looks him in the eye!"

Orihime manages a determined smile, though she can feel a gelid wave of fear running down her spine. She isn't sure if she has the mettle to deal with him again.

"I'm sure a guy like that has bigger fish to fry than a doctor, Kiyone," she says with a quiet giggle.

"If he tries anything—"

"I've got a few tricks up my sleeve! If he messes with me, he'll be sorry."

She says it with such confidence less to reassure Kiyone and more to convince herself that she can handle it. Realistically, there isn't much he could do to her in his incapacitated state, and really, who picks fights in a hospital, that would just be ridiculous, although he _did_ say she talked too much and he sounded really annoyed, and with blue hair like that and those weird teal markings (tattoos?) near his eyes he clearly just doesn't care, he'd fight a doctor in a hospital, he'd fight a cashier in a convenience store, he'd fight a baby in a daycare center, he'd fight _all_ the babies if they irritated him somehow—

She somehow manages to stop that train of thought, which managed to derail and fall right into a canyon in her mind. It occurs to her just how badly she needs to sleep if she's concocting scenarios in which a grown man is fighting multiple babies.

Orihime throws the styrofoam bowl out and follows Kiyone out of the break room and toward the post-anesthesia care unit. The young nurse hands her Grimmjow's charts before making her way to another unit.

When she finally arrives in the PACU, it's impossible to miss him; not simply because of his outlandish appearance, but because every inch of her can feel his violent, torrential aura emanating throughout the entire room. A quick scan of the rest of the beds tells her that she isn't the only one intimidated by Grimmjow; yet, she intuits that she is the only one whose skin is crawling, whose entire self is resonating with his energy. Even confined to a hospital bed, his appearance is as commanding as any of her superiors; even around Isane and Unohana, she feels the reverberation of their essence, an undeniable pressure that she has only somewhat grown used to. She never questioned the sensation, never discussed it with anyone but Tatsuki. She vaguely suspects Kurosaki and a few of their other friends share the sensation, but it's not something that she's brought up with them (—yet).

"What took you so fucking long?" he bellows as soon as she crosses his line of sight. She somehow resists the reflexive urge to recoil.

"I was told that you were awake only ten minutes ago," she says, inspecting the cast around his leg and pointedly avoiding eye contact. She can only hope he recovers as quickly as her patients usually - inexplicably - do. Considering how he could barely stand being kept in the clinic longer for an hour in the face of a major procedure, she'll go out on a limb and guess that he isn't the type who patiently waits to heal and gets back to business after a few weeks. "How are you feeling?"

"Good enough to get the hell out of here." He grimaces, and in the brief moment she glances up at him, she can tell that his pride is as wounded as the rest of him. He's sitting up so that he's level with her face as she sits down in the uncomfortable wheeled stool beside his bed.

"That's great! The procedure went very smoothly, although you'll want to follow up with another doctor when you leave. The anesthesia probably hasn't completely worn off yet, so we'll keep you for another hour or so—"

"An _hour_?" He laughs dryly; it's a terrible sound, a sound that racks her body with chills. He grabs the saline drip IV and — much to her abject horror — rips it away before hoisting himself off the bed, careful to place most of his weight on his good leg. He towers over her; even in his ailed, bandaged, and casted state, his very existence is an implicit threat. "You think I've got time for that? All I wanted to hear was that you unfucked my leg so I didn't have to chance it when I left. Should've ditched this place sooner, since it feels damn near good as new."

"W...Wait just a minute, Mr. Jaeger—"

She rises to her feet in an effort to assert herself, but he has already roughly made his way past her.

"See ya."

She watches him walk away with more ease than he did the night before, broken leg and all. She can't tell if it's because of her uncanny abilities or his own ungodly fortitude — perhaps it's both.

Orihime purses her lips and drops back down in the stool.

If her futon sounded good before, it sounds positively divine now.

* * *

"...And then he just left, just like that! His leg was still broken, but he walked away like it was nothing!"

She emphatically stabs her chopsticks into a piece of yellowtail sashimi smothered with raspberry vinaigrette and topped with coriander. Tatsuki kindly refused the odd trimmings and swore up and down that she was content to dip the strips of yellowtail in plain soy sauce, which she is doing repeatedly, absentmindedly as Orihime relates the tale of her oh-so-unique patient and his various quirks.

The clock inches toward 10 PM, which would be far too late for dinner for most people; for her, it's standard. (It felt slightly odd to eat dinner in her pajamas at first, but if she's being honest with herself, she wouldn't have it any other way now.) Tatsuki, being an instructor at the dojo in town, has the coveted privilege of a normal schedule, but somehow manages to make it work with Orihime's.

"He was just so... _weird_ , Tatsuki," she says with the barest hint of exasperation in her voice before shoving a strip of sashimi in her mouth. "I have a feeling he'll be coming there again."

"With your luck lately, you'll be the one seeing him every damn time." Tatsuki stifles a yawn and leans forward, resting her elbow on the small table that remains the centerpiece of Orihime's modest studio apartment. "I don't know how you haven't managed to lose your mind, Hime."

She smiles and twists an errant strand of hair, having come undone from her bun, around her finger. "For every patient like that, there are a dozen more who are as kind as can be, and those are the ones that make it all worth it!"

"I wish I had that attitude. If I had a hundred yen for every time I wanted to knock the daylights out of some brat in the dojo, I wouldn't even have to work there anymore."

They fall into a brief but comfortable silence as they finish off the last of the yellowtail. She furrows her brow pensively as she swirls her last slice in the vinaigrette — she can see Tatsuki making a face out of the corner of her eye and chuckles quietly — as she thinks about what truly makes her position so worth it.

Yes, it's the kind patients and the tears and declarations of gratitude from friends and family. Yes, it's the satisfaction of knowing that she has saved someone from an untimely demise, a terrible fate; and it's the exultance of exercising her talents on a daily basis. She toiled away for many years, both in high school and beyond, (pleasantly) surprising her friends with her sheer tenacity in the face of such trying studies. She is here through her own blood, sweat, and tears - as well as that of others.

And that is the subtle shadow that follows and haunts her with increasing frequency; the ones she couldn't save, the ones she still cannot save, the horrifying guilt of allowing someone's loved one to die, the continual reminder that she is not omnipotent.

Unohana, Isane, even the awkward and terminally gloomy Izuru Kira (who has since left the hospital to work under a rather shady sounding fellow named Gin Ichimaru) — they have all attempted to impart to her the firm belief — no, the _knowledge_ that she, nor any other doctor, can save everyone. And yet, it never quite resonated with her, even after all this time.

"Whoa, you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost."

She snaps out of her reverie to see Tatsuki waving her hand in front of her face.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm fine! Just thinking about...stuff."

Tatsuki quirks an eyebrow and sets her chopsticks down on her plate. "I think your crazy schedule is catching up to you. Or maybe that guy rattled you a little more than you think."

Well, both of those ideas aren't exactly wrong.

"You're probably right! This is the first time I've gotten a break in a while, so everything's probably catching up to me," she says, scratching the back of her head and laughing nervously.

"Yeah, well, I worry about you, Hime. I don't want you overworking yourself, you know," Tatsuki murmurs, regarding her with deep concern. Orihime can't help but feel a pang of guilt at making her fret. It isn't an unfamiliar scenario; Ichigo, Rukia, Ishida - they all, at some point or another, have taken issue with how relentlessly she works herself to the bone.

Orihime takes Tatsuki's hand into her own in an attempt to reassure her and softens her expression; an act that comes so naturally to her to begin with, but a skill that has been perfected through her profession. "It'll be fine, I promise. There are people who are much worse for the wear than I am, after all!"

The concern on Tatsuki's face melts away, save for trace amounts, and she smiles. "If you say so, then."

"I do say so, so it's all good!" Orihime gives a thumbs-up for good measure.

"But hey," Tatsuki interjects, her features suddenly hardening. "If I see that bastard around here, I'll give him a personal asskicking, free of charge. And if he bothers you again, you tell me, and I'll be waiting for him the second he gets outta the ER."

She can't help but giggle at Tatsuki's severity, which in turn causes her to break down into laughter as well.

(She might just have to take her up on that offer.)

* * *

As much as Orihime enjoys the tranquility of the night shift — relative to the day and evening shifts, anyway — it seems like a death sentence on this particular night.

The two days she had off were not quite enough to recover completely from the brutal shift she miraculously persevered through prior to that. Well — objectively speaking, her night wasn't quite so torturous, but between the length of her shift and her testy patient, it was trying enough.

She goes through her rounds with as much enthusiasm as ever, and it's a relief to see how relatively empty the emergency ward is. She finishes her rounds and heads purposefully back down the hallway towards her office; she might as well take advantage of the peace and get some paperwork done. She passes by Isane, who, bless her heart, is looking terribly worse for the wear. Orihime can't say she envies the life of an anesthesiologist.

"Dr. Inoue," Isane acknowledges with a formal smile and brief nod of her head. "It's been slow today, as I'm sure you've noticed. Hopefully that trend will continue until you leave, for both of our sakes."

"Aw, you've jinxed it now, Dr. Kotetsu! Just watch what's gonna happen!" Orihime replies with a pout. She says it in jest, but following the events of her most recent shift, she can't help but feel slightly apprehensive.

Much to her relief, however, the night proceeds normally. They have a few minor cases coming in and out the door, some stitches here, a hefty amount of gauze there - it's nothing too severe.

Sunrise breaks over the horizon and the world becomes a little lighter with each passing hour. The light demands of this particular night have done nothing, however, to stymie the onset of utter fatigue that threatens to overtake her.

Isane yawns and visibly resists the urge to rub her eyes. "The sun has been up for a few hours now. Dr. Iemura should be here any minute…"

"Try not to act _too_ excited to leave when he gets here," Orihime reminds her cheerfully, though she can also feel cumbersome exhaustion weighing down on her very being. Despite getting an ample amount of sleep before starting the graveyard shift, she can somehow never escape it without feeling like a dead woman walking; if Isane's depleted state is anything to go by, she isn't alone in that regard.

"I'll do my best, but I make no promises." Isane offers a smile, and they both prepare to head back into the ward before they hear someone enter the waiting room.

Normally, she'd think nothing of it, but the hairs on Orihime's arms stand on end; there's an abrupt spike in energy in the vicinity. She watches Isane's face pale ever so slightly before twisting in disgust.

She directs her gaze to the entrance, and sure enough, there he is, in all his blue and bloodied glory.

Blood seeps out of a deep gash just below his jugular; any higher and he wouldn't even be here, she thinks with a shiver. Complementing that is a deep puncture wound in his stomach, although her vantage point prevents her from getting a decent look at it.

"How's it kickin', doc?" he rasps, and a slow, sinister grin spreads across his face. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

When she forces a hospitable smile onto her face, it is wholly to conceal her internal screaming.


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n:** thanks for the reviews and kind words, everyone! this is mostly a setup chapter but i hope you'll enjoy it anyway, huehue. i'll probably take a short break from furiously working on this to finish up something else i've been writing, but i'll get the next chapter out asap.

also, a brief aside about how the gotei 13 are treated in this fic: it was difficult trying to adapt them on an organizational level without making them this…weird unrealistic militia thing. therefore, i've taken the liberty of designating them as japan's resident illuminati organization. :') ironically, the original illuminati was strongly opposed to superstition and had anti-religious overtones, but let's pretend that it's a little different in this scenario, shall we?

* * *

When she predicted that Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez would become a regular at their clinic, she did not envision that it would pan out quite like this.

To wit, she did not think he would be coming twice a week as if it were his job. Not only that, but she did not think he would be coming at the same exact time she paid her nightly dues each week.

Compared to his first visit, the injuries that follow are nowhere near as severe. A slashed hand requiring stitches here, a shallow puncture wound there - he is, relatively speaking, in and out, and by all means, isn't quite as much trouble as she initially suspected. He groans and grumbles and isn't at all her idea of a perfect patient, but he's _tolerable_.

Kind of.

A little.

* * *

The first three or four times (including his grandiose initial visit) are largely comprised of her seeing him out as quickly as possible. Orihime would like to say that she is simply concerned with letting him get back to his normal life as soon as he could, but that isn't quite the whole truth. She can't bear to look him in the eye; his gaze is pure frosty fire - it's searing hot and sends shivers down her spine.

During these times, he is generally subdued, though she can practically see the indignation roiling in his veins. He doesn't speak much, and when he does, it's to express his utter exasperation at how long it's taking for her to get him out of there. She tries to be as upbeat as ever, but if she's honest with herself, even he has proven able to push her resolve to the limit at times. Nonetheless, just from the frequency with which they're forced together, they have formedsomething of a begrudging comradeship.

When he arrives in the emergency room for the fifth time, however, his disposition is different; he is less implicitly hostile, but more talkative.

His only ailment in this case is a dislocated shoulder, which she vaguely suspects someone like him could've corrected on their own.

If she's being honest with herself, Orihime is a little tempted to pass Grimmjow off to one of the other doctors or nurses on duty. It's not that she doesn't like him or derive any satisfaction from treating him - that's not it at all. Well, maybe a little. He _is_ rude. Above all that, however, he is simply one of the most mentally draining people she's ever been around.

Nevertheless, when Hanatarou, papers quaking in his hands and very much appearing to be on the verge of tears, ushers him in, she puts on the best Doctorly Face she can muster as he nearly throws himself onto the bed.

Orihime surveys him and instantly catches the abnormality in his right shoulder. She situates herself in a stool next to the afflicted side and suppresses her curiosity as to what in the world happened to cause this in order to start coaxing it back in place.

Neither of them speak for an extended length of time - not unusual for them by any means. What is veritably unusual, however, is the fact that _he_ is the one who breaks the silence.

"How the hell do you do it?" he mutters, and she can feel him staring at her; she refuses to look up.

"What do you mean, Mr. Jaegerjaquez? Treating injuries is my job," she says, hoping she doesn't sound as intimidated as she feels. She isn't quite used to him addressing her and actually expecting an answer in turn.

From the corner of her eye, she can see him scowling. "That's not what I meant. How is it that I can break my goddamn leg and it's good as new not even two days later?"

She halts her ministrations for a brief moment and instinctually looks up. She's sure she looks like a deer in the headlights, perfect prey for someone like him (-someone like him? she barely even knows him), but she manages to hold his skeptical gaze for a few solid seconds.

"I'm not sure, actually! Maybe you're just that determined to get back on your feet," she says with a nervous chuckle.

He presses his lips into a thin, hard line and says nothing, but the look on his face tells her that he knows something that she doesn't.

She successfully pops his shoulder back into place, lectures him about keeping himself out of peril ("Doc, hearing this from you one more goddamn time is going to kill me before anything else does"), and sees him off shortly afterward, feeling ever so slightly unsettled by the different tone of the encounter.

The look he had given her, the look that strongly suggested that he has something going on that he isn't about to tell her, follows her until she slips into a deep slumber that afternoon.

* * *

"Mr. Jaegerjaquez, this is your eighth time in the emergency room in the last thirty days."

Orihime is not a judgmental person. Over the course of her career here at Karakura Hospital, she has seen and treated many cases that others would rightfully deem... _questionable_. She is simply not inclined to give it a second thought. She doesn't catalogue how many times a patient comes in, either; there are a few "repeat offenders," so to speak, but they're truly harmless.

This is an exception.

There was no getting around the fact that she had to say _something_ eventually. She's growing worried for this man's health. She can't keep stitching him up like she is now, situated in an unpopulated corner of the emergency ward - well, she theoretically can, but she can't say her goal is to keep him coming back for more - and she can't keep observing the violent nature of his injuries without saying something.

He scoffs and cracks his neck. "And? What are you gonna do, kick me out?"

"Of course not!" she says, briefly waving the hand free of the sutures back and forth emphatically. "What kind of doctor would I be if I let you go out looking like this-"

"Alright, alright! Shriek a little _louder_ , why don't you!"

"Sorry, sorry!"

They are a mess. They are truly a mess. Somehow, though, she gets the feeling that if anyone else were to tend to him, it would be an even _bigger_ mess.

They fall into their typical tense silence before her next words come out without a second thought.

"It's not really my place to ask, but I guess I can't help but wonder what it is that you do that makes you come in here so often," she says neutrally, not truly knowing whether to sound serious or lighthearted when it comes to her genuine concern. She concentrates on adding the next stitch and looks up at him before she speaks again. "You're not...involved with anything _too_ reckless, are you, Mr. Jaegerjacquez?"

He stiffens and catches her gaze for a few solid, burning seconds. She subconsciously swallows in the face of his overwhelming presence, his unrelenting glare that she hasn't quite seen before, but she manages to stand her ground and return the stare.

"Who gives a shit if I am, woman? Is it any of your fuckin' business how this shit happens to me?" he hisses.

(Ah, yes, the time has come to say her prayers and beg for heavenly forgiveness.)

"It's not that, Mr. Jaegerjaquez," Orihime says softly, closing her eyes briefly to project an image of calm (when she really wants to buckle with fear, naturally). "I don't care who you are or where you've been. If it isn't important to know in order to treat you, then it isn't important to me. I'm just...worried about you."

When she opens her eyes once again, something in his expression changes (she wouldn't quite say soften, no, but something akin to it) minutely, so subtly that she would have missed it if she hadn't been looking intently - before rolling his eyes and huffing.

"What, does it keep you up at night? I ain't a kid, doc."

"I don't know, not many adults pop in here with these kinds of injuries every week. Kids, on the other hand…" she says teasingly, completing the last stitch on this particular lesion.

She almost expects him to grind her into chopped liver after a cheeky comment like that - although she is coming to learn that there really is no predicting what will set him off on a given day - but, miraculously, he grins instead. There is a vaguely sinister quality to it, but she isn't sure if that's intentional or even something he can help.

(He could literally be Satan for all she knows. In all likelihood, he is _probably_ literally Satan, with a sneer like that.)

"Shoulda known you'd say something like that. Maybe you're onto something."

It's most certainly not the response she expected, and though she should be relieved at how docile it is, something doesn't sit right with her. Her instincts tell her that he's alluding to something significant, just like before, but she refuses to push her luck.

The rest of the treatment doesn't take long, but as they both stand at the same time, she tries to face him head on. It's difficult, very difficult; but despite her fear, she finds herself studying this enigma of a man whom she truly still knows nothing about.

"If you're going to keep doing what you're doing, Mr. Jaegerjaquez, then at least promise that you'll try not to get yourself into _too_ much trouble?" It comes out as a question, though she intended for it to be a very assertive, doctorly statement. "I'd really hate to see you lose an arm or a leg one of these days!"

He stares her down coldly before shrugging off her concern as though it were nothing.

"Well, Jesus shit, doc. I was just on my way to shove a fucking limb or two into a meat grinder, but you sure stopped me."

She knows he's mocking her, and is more than likely fairly annoyed with her, but it doesn't stop her from grinning as she discharges him and bids him (a very temporary) farewell.

* * *

" _Kanpai_!"

The clinking of glasses is practically music to her ears after the week she's had.

She normally wouldn't find herself in a crowded and kind of seedy bar like this, but considering her company, the setting is admittedly appropriate. She had just been liberated from the hectic day shift when she saw Rangiku's text-

 _heyyyy o~ri~hi~me~! you wanna come out with me and the guys tonight? ;) thought id ask since were in town for once lol_

\- and powered through the chatspeak to graciously accept the offer of reprieve from an otherwise solitary night of eating red bean ice cream and watching terrible dramas.

She had met Rangiku and the others through Ichigo and his subsequent association with Rukia, and despite the massive gulf in life circumstances and experience between them, Orihime had been quick to befriend them. They largely operate outside of Karakura, but occasionally make the pilgrimage back here almost wholly to harass Ichigo and Rukia.

This time around, only Rangiku, Renji, Yumichika, and Ikkaku are in tow. Hitsugaya is noticeably absent, but from what she's heard, he isn't one to engage in revelry lately anyway. Though she's been rather dodgy with the information about her boss, Rangiku has alluded to his being preoccupied with something...or, perhaps, someone.

The men are complaining rather loudly about their recent workloads, but Rangiku wastes no time in getting to the gossip.

"Have you heard the rumors, Orihime?" she asks, raising her eyebrows and taking a swig of beer before slamming her stein down with gusto. "About the gang activity recently?"

Orihime blinks. Ichigo, as far as she's concerned, would be the first one to tell her about that, but perhaps he's too busy dealing with the problem to begin with to inform her of recent goings-on.

"No, I haven't," she responds, still surprised at the notion of there being a criminal underworld in plain, understated Karakura Town, of all places.

"It looks like that Aizen bastard's got something to do with it," Renji interjects with a scowl, apparently having overheard them and subsequently gaining Yumichika and Ikkaku's attention as well. "I ain't surprised."

She can feel herself pale at the mention of his name. He had never wronged her directly, but she distinctly remembers how profoundly and viscerally his defection had affected the "Gotei 13" - an informal, sometimes derisive, nickname applied collectively to the graduates of the Shin'ou Academy who then go on to specialize in a certain skill. Though she isn't quite as informed as she'd like to be, she does know that the Shin'ou Academy is private and fosters a certain environment and relationship between various majors and specialties - as methodical as the military, it often seems. Orihime, admittedly, does not understand the culture or camaraderie between them all - it seems that they want to be as arcane and esoteric as possible - but the bonds between them must be as strong and tightly woven as steel if Aizen's disappearance continues to haunt them.

"And those damn weasels Ichimaru and Tousen," Ikkaku adds.

"Ichimaru?" Orihime says breathlessly. "Didn't Kira work under him?"

"He most certainly did," Yumichika responds, sloshing his sake around in its cup. He looks to Orihime and raises his eyebrows. "Ah, isn't it true that he worked under Unohana some time ago?"

"Y...Yes, it is. That's mostly why I asked...I'm kind of surprised! Is he alright?"

They all go quiet for a brief but agonizing moment before Renji speaks up again.

"Well, he's probably the second most alright person in that trio, just behind Shuuhei and way ahead of Hinamori, but that's not sayin' much," he says, pointedly downing his glass.

Their faces are tragically downcast, and she can feel their melancholy seep into her own heart.

"I'm sure they'll find their way soon," Orihime murmurs, staring at her lap and balling her hands up.

"That's our Orihime! Always looking on the bright side. Maybe you guys should take a hint." Rangiku slings her arm around Orihime and enthusiastically brings her stein to her lips.

"Not much of a bright side to look on in this case, y'know," Renji grumbles.

"Moping is _so_ pathetic, though," Rangiku says scornfully. Such a statement is odd, Orihime thinks, coming from her; if what was said earlier about Ichimaru is in fact true, she can foresee a fair bit of (very justified) moping in Rangiku's future.

"At the very least, we have the dignity to maintain my sobriety in public, unlike some other individuals present here tonight," Yumichika quips. He looks completely satisfied with himself, which expectedly incites Rangiku's ire.

"Oh, yeah, that's what he _says_ , but we all know Yumichika's got no right talking about dignity when he's a man of the night," she declares, mostly to Orihime. Her speech is beginning to slur; what's worse, it seems that her cognitive faculties are very quickly diminishing, which is veritably Bad News for both herself and everyone else.

"Please, Matsumoto," he retorts, running a hand through his hair and smirking. "Even if what you said was true, I would be a man of the day _and_ night. I'm not as much of a fan of doing things halfway as you are, you know."

Ikkaku's face twists with something resembling contempt while Rangiku simply rolls her eyes and grins. Her grin fades, however, when she turns to Orihime and notices her staring solemnly into her drink.

"Hey, Orihime, you've been kind of quiet tonight. Something got you down? Tell Mama Rangiku all about it!"

(Though she is admittedly beginning to tune the rest of the conversation out, she can hear Yumichika whispering to Ikkaku, " _Mama_ Rangiku? That woman really needs to start loving herself.")

Orihime waves her hand dismissively. "Ah, it's nothing! Nothing at all! I'm just listening to what you guys are saying!"

Rangiku frowns, as though about to protest her reticence, but instead shakes her head and ostensibly decides to let it go - that, or just pursue it later through some other avenue.

By the time they adjourn, Orihime and Renji are dragging Rangiku back to Orihime's apartment and Yumichika and Ikkaku are having a woefully uneven debate over the merits of hard liquor versus "fruity ass bullshit."

(She isn't partaking in the conversation, but as the evening comes to a close, Orihime can't help but think she didn't quite imbibe _enough_ "fruity ass bullshit" this night.)

* * *

Long after Rangiku and her party have come and gone, Orihime reports in for her afternoon shift and promptly collapses into her office chair.

It's another slow day, and another slow day means another day of mostly paperwork, and another day of mostly paperwork means swimming around in her own thoughts for hours on end, and swimming around in her own thoughts for hours on end inevitably leads to somewhere that's a tad bit unpleasant.

She leans her cheek against the palm of her hand as she fills out the plethora of forms haphazardly distributed across her desk. She really, really, _really_ shouldn't let her mind wander like this, but in light of the otherwise heavyhanded subject matter that occupies much of the real estate in her thoughts these days, the stifling silence of her office, and the certified Boy Talk she and Rangiku engaged in once the latter sobered up, it's difficult to refrain from doing so.

She isn't quite as oblivious as she sometimes acts; she can recognize that he's good-looking (albeit mostly when he isn't specifically glowering at something - or someone), and despite her commitment to professionalism, there have been instances where her eyes lingered on his physique just a little more than necessary. One of the first things she took note about him - (aside from the hair and eyes and tattoos and, well, okay, she could get carried away on this train of thought) - was the fact that he had so many scars - it wasn't anything she was unaccustomed to, but she couldn't, and still can't, help but imagine the story behind each of them. The first one that comes to mind is the dark one square in the center of his abdomen - it so much seemed to be a perfect circle that her mind had briefly, despairingly, jumped to the possibility of torture. It wouldn't be too farfetched, given the kind of activities he appears to get himself mixed up in.

Her gut tells her that Grimmjow is, indubitably, Bad News™. How else would he keep finding himself in medical predicament after medical predicament? Similarly, he is her patient. He is her patient. Her patient, he is. It would be the height of imprudence to mack on a patient.

(She could also get fired for something like that, but somehow the stability of her career has become an afterthought.)

And yet, her mind still wanders in all kinds of directions it should not be wandering in, and she can feel the heat pool in her cheeks, her lips parted slightly, her vision glazing over-

"What am I doing!" she groans, instantly snapping out of her reverie and folding her arms and shoving her face head down against them. "Come on, Orihime! You're not in high school anymore!"

That she has these flights of fancy at all deeply disturbs her; a small part of her worries that this will color her disposition towards him during their next encounter.

It takes all the willpower in the world to collect herself and resume her duties. She's getting an overwhelming sense of déjà vu - yes, this has happened before, back when she was swallowed whole by limerence towards Ichigo. A part of her is glad that such feelings waned in the face of time and distance ( _and subtle rejection_ ), another part embarrassed, but all of it makes her feel strangely nostalgic. Perhaps that's the case here, too; Grimmjow's belligerent and abrasive nature _is_ fairly reminiscent of Ichigo.

Yes, that has to be it, she decides as she furrows her brow. She's only seeking to relive her younger days, and nothing more, and that's why she's projecting her weird desires onto Grimmjow. What's more, there's no denying that the strange pull she feels towards him is purely physical in nature; she knows this because the thought of having an extended conversation with him still conjures the base reaction of wanting to melt straight through the earth.

She's not exactly sure what good this epiphany will do, however. She taps her pen back and forth on the desk, chewing her lip before letting yet another pained groan escape her.

Those biceps are going to be the death of her.

* * *

"...And that should do it!"

"Yeah, for a day or two, maybe."

She fixes the last of the tape on the bandages around his calf and can't seem to stop sweating nervously.

He hops off the bed and starts to make his way out, and for no good reason, it suddenly occurs to her that he has never once thanked her for anything she did.

(Not that thanks are required; it's her job, it's what she does.)

At this point, she'd normally turn back and get on with her day, but something keeps her lingering by the entrance to the triage area, her eyes fixated on him.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" she calls out, impromptu and sounding somewhere between cheerful and maternally grave.

He stops in his tracks, turns his head, and raises an eyebrow, communicating in equal parts the messages _in your damn dreams, you ditzy broad_ and _what exactly_ wouldn't _you do, now?_

She must look at least a little scandalized, because the smirk that follows tells her that he is awfully pleased with himself.

"I'm not makin' any promises," he says sternly, turning to usher himself out, and if she didn't know any better, she'd say that he had something of a teasing glint in his eye despite his tone of voice. She almost has the audacity to feel a little flattered - before he barks something at the receptionist that she couldn't bring herself to repeat in a thousand years and promptly takes his leave.

Orihime lets out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding and shakes her head.

Audacity, indeed.

* * *

Just as she's preparing to finally take her own leave for the night (day?), Unohana catches her in the middle of the hallway, and much to Orihime's surprise, stops her. Despite Unohana's warm nature, she's typically spread just a little too thin to stop and make conversation with her underlings.

"Dr. Inoue," Unohana begins, her radiant smile never wavering. "I do not mean to insinuate that you've committed any wrongdoing. I would just like to remind you, just as I remind everyone else - especially Dr. Iemura - to be as professional as possible when interacting with our patients."

Orihime nearly chokes on air and keels over, but she somehow manages to keep her composure.

"Of course!" she sputters, waving her free hand frantically and bowing slightly in deference. "I - well, I'm assuming you're talking about Mr. Jaegerjaquez, unless you really are talking about someone else - anyway, I promise that nothing's going on! He's been acting a little strange these past couple visits, but I'm not playing his game! Did I give him any weird looks? Did I say something wrong? Is that it? I'm so sorry if I did anything untoward, Dr. Unohana-"

"Calm yourself, Orihime," her superior says kindly. "As I said, I was not accusing you of anything. I just know that it's rather easy to find oneself... _fascinated_ with a frequent patient and find yourself a bit flustered around them."

She has never wanted to melt through the ground in the earth's flaming core quite as much as she does now.

"If...if you think it would be a good idea, I can delegate him to someone else," she stammers, averting her eyes and looking towards the ground.

Unohana's soft laughter manages to assuage some of her shame, however. "Goodness, no! Everything is truly fine. Think of this as simply a precaution, yes? _All_ doctors, young and old, male or female, should hear it at some point, in my opinion. In any case, it appears to me that your charge would not take too kindly to seeing anyone else, and I'd like to keep my staff out of harm's way if possible."

Orihime fidgets and can feel the blush creeping up on her cheeks and spreading to the tips of her ears. "I - um, if you say so, Dr. Unohana!"

"Don't fear; I do say so. I must be on my way, but remember what I said - and try not too push yourself to your limit if you can help it, Orihime. Fatigue will strain your patients just as much as it will strain you," she says, offering one last soothing smile of reassurance before continuing down the hallway.

Orihime responds in kind, flashing a smile and bowing.

She doesn't realize how tense every muscle in her body had been until the moment she signs off for the day.

* * *

The flashing red numbers on her clock read 02:31 as she shoots up in bed, gasping thirstily for air, cold beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

It's pitch black, with the moonlight narrowly avoiding her room at this particular hour. Somehow, this makes the aftershock of the nightmare even worse.

 _It's just a dream,_ she thinks, curling back up into bed. _Just a dream._

It should not even be affecting her to her core like this.

She never even knew him, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n:** whoa, yes, hello! we are just about at the halfway point for this little venture of mine! i hope people still care about this story lmao

i disappeared for a long time because life got in the way. but i'm done with college now, and i'll be off to grad school in august! i'll be posting more consistently now, and i hope to have this story wrapped up by september/october of this year.

a couple notes about the story itself:

if grimmjow comes off as extremely mercurial here, that's because he is. lbr

secondly, i did a lot of research about drugs in japan and the plausibility of a drug ring, and holy shit i was not prepared for that level of strictness. i had to do tons more research just so i could make everything feasible after scrapping that idea haha

thirdly, this is so dialogue heavy it's stupid. the pace will definitely improve next chapter, i swear on me mum. sorry for any jarring stylistic changes — as you might imagine, barely writing for a whole year will result in some changes. i'd love to hear any and all feedback and concrit!

* * *

On one hand, he's slightly grateful that he hasn't gotten the boot for landing himself in this situation so many fucking times, but on the other, Aizen really should have seen this coming.

Strictly speaking, he's supposed to run with his tail between his legs to Szayel when this happens as a precaution against arousing suspicion.

"Can't have the doctors seein' that the ER's becoming a regular ol' knife and gun club, y'know," Ichimaru pointed out oh-so-helpfully during the meeting in which Aizen declared that visiting any hospital, public or private, would be verboten.

He could begrudgingly admit that it made sense. Hospitals easily could and absolutely would serve a nice helping of _the fucking cops_ if a noticeable pattern were to be established. For a time, Aizen had the entirety of Karakura and the Gotei 13 eating out of the palm of his hand, but no more; he was just as susceptible as any other crook.

So yes, as much as he hates to admit it, there's an actual reason for all the goddamn hoops and red tape.

Grimmjow, however, was not ever one for rules, and he certainly will not start abiding by them now. It's Aizen's fault anyway for failing to understand that sometimes, just sometimes, it's a little impractical to haul oneself across the entire goddamn town when they're bleeding out just to get picked apart by a pink-haired weirdo. Sometimes, it's just easier to haul oneself across a quarter of the town and get picked apart by people who (probably) aren't going to derive weird sexual pleasure from seeing someone's organs exposed.

Even though he isn't getting his ass handed to him on a silver platter by Aizen or any of his faithful cocksuckers, it would probably be in his best interest if he at least made a paltry attempt at staying out of trouble.

(Of course, this thought only ever occurs to him when he's doubled over and bleeding all over the damn place.)

* * *

Grimmjow doesn't explicitly go out of his way to get fucked up. Honest. It isn't his fault if low-level peons are adamant about asserting their self-perceived authority over him, and it _really_ isn't his fault if he has no choice but to teach them what happens when they decide to show their asses like that.

Yet, as much as he attempts to shift his focus away from frying small fish to squaring off against more worthwhile opponents, he finds himself here. Again. And again. And again.

He's been (relatively) lucky, he'll admit; no one's sunken a sword into his spinal cord or slashed his carotid quite yet. He can't exactly say he's peachy keen with nearly having a chunk of his hand chopped off, however, which is what prompts him to drag his ass here tonight.

He's kind of beginning to feel sorry for the lady who regularly attends to him. Her cheery disposition is laughable when the circles under her eyes speak for themselves. He may be a creature of the night, but he doesn't envy her graveyard shift in this case.

She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. "I think you manage to fund the entire night staff's salaries all by yourself, Mr. Jaegerjaquez."

"What can I say, I'm a do-gooder."

The doctor just smiles serenely as she gets to work on patching him up. It's admittedly something akin to a tranquil process for him, a minor change in pace amidst the fracas before he fucks off and is subject to Aizen's will once more. More than anything, it's probably the fact that the alternative makes his skin crawl. There is little denying that Szayel would intentionally screw his hand up more than heal it.

"It looks worse than it is," she offers, a strand of auburn hair falling from her updo and into her face. She hardly seems to notice it, however. The lady may be a flighty broad, but he has to give credit where it's due. Her intent and concentration would put every one of his beloved colleagues to shame.

"Really." Even he isn't sure whether he wanted that to sound like a genuine question or not.

"Yes, really." She's almost done sewing the stitches, but glances up at him briefly as she does so before quickly averting her gaze back down. He feels the corner of his mouth twitch.

"What's your name, anyway?"

This prompts her to actually pause for a moment and look him in the eye. "My name?"

"Did I stutter?"

He notices a blush creeping onto her face, her eyes widening, and he can't stop himself from grinning wolfishly. (No, she wouldn't be his first pick, but he wouldn't say no.)

"No, no! It's not that!" she says, though she's now speaking so quickly that she sounds somewhat muffled through her surgical mask. "I just thought you'd seen my name tag before. Sorry for assuming."

Does she really think he has the mind to look for something like that when he's practically pissing and shitting blood? Grimmjow cranes his neck to the best of his ability and there it is, in all its glory, a lanyard around her neck with a name tag dangling in front of her tits.

 _Orihime Inoue, Emergency Physician._

Inoue, is it? He'll have to remember it. He doesn't think he'll ever directly address her as such, but it's good to know anyway.

"This is going to take a while to heal, so try not to do anything too strenuous for a bit, okay? It was somehow cut nearly down to the bone." It's clear that she's been through this song and dance so many times before that she can't find it in her to sound very concerned anymore.

"Whatever. Just tell me when I can go."

"As soon as I've filled out your paperwork, Mr. Jaegerjaquez."

It's a routine with them, and as irritating as it can be, he's come to somewhat enjoy it. It's a welcome contrast to the leaden atmosphere that hangs over his usual haunts.

She disposes of the gloves and mask in the biohazard bin, flashes her trademark reassuring smile, and, with a flick of her white coat, is on her way.

* * *

She's surprisingly (and, if he's being honest with himself, disappointingly) restrained, even a little distant the next time he comes around. On the bright side, he doesn't have to put up with her incessant squawking about the most inane details of her life. On the other, her muted disposition is almost excruciatingly out of place for someone as animated as herself, and the silence between them is as awkward as it gets as she goes through her motions.

"Hey," he says, unable to put up with the abrupt change in dynamic much longer. "What the hell's gotten into you?"

It's clearly a question that she wasn't expecting, judging by the way her calm and careful façade instantly breaks and she hopelessly trips over a response.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about!" she declares with an insistent wave of her hand.

"Please. You look like you've got a stick up your ass."

She refutes him effortlessly, but not before hesitating for a fraction of a second. He nearly misses it, but it was undoubtedly there - she blinked just a little too rapidly in that fleeting moment.

(Ah, the things you learn from getting up close and personal with thugs while you have your hand halfway through their stomach. If there's anything he's good at — that isn't killing people, that is — it's reading people's eyes.)

"I'll have you know that I got seven minutes less sleep than I'm used to, and that's why I'm all discombobulated today," she says with laughably minimal conviction. Humor doesn't become her when something insidious is so clearly roiling within her veins.

He's somewhat tempted to press her for more information, but when her eyes narrow as she pulls the gauze just a little too tight, he thinks better of it.

She's more reminiscent of her old self when he pays his dues a couple weeks later.

Her attention is divided as she attends to a torn ligament in his calf. In her defense, it _is_ unusually busy tonight. Grimmjow didn't think most normal people went around tearing themselves up in the dead of night, but here they are.

After thoroughly inspecting the affected limb, she rises to her feet. "It looks like a pretty bad sprain, but you should be fine. Keep your foot elevated for now. I'll be back soon!"

"Goddamn it, woman, you'd think I'd be just a little higher up on the fucking priority list."

"It's a sprain. You won't die, I promise. If you do, I'll take full responsibility!" She flashes a jocular wink and scribbles something on her clipboard.

Grimmjow isn't precisely won over, and he supposes it shows on his face given her nervous laughter.

"Sorry! Can't help it!"

With that, she's on her way. He groans and begrudgingly obeys her commands to keep his leg up.

She's obnoxiously cheerful, especially for a woman of her rank and age. He doesn't know shit about professionalism or any of that nonsense, but he's willing to bet that her demeanor isn't always emblematic of someone who's been in school for, what, six thousand years to save people's lives. Hell, he _knows_ it isn't. Even though she's ultimately the one who has the final say over his fate (- well, just short of the boss, anyway), he frequently finds his patience pushed to the brink during his frequent trips.

But every now and then, when she's left the room and gone off to fulfill some other duty, he'll see her walking with the silver-haired woman or any of the generic nurses. During those times, she'll be smiling, even laughing, infectious in its nature, coaxing her colleague into joining her even in the midst of death and disease. Not once has she ever betrayed the slightest sadness or projected anything less than radiant hope for everyone in this godforsaken place.

On most levels, it grates on him. If he's being completely honest with himself — a rarity — it's part of what keeps him inexplicably coming back here.

The doctor briefly stops by and sticks her head out from behind the curtain.

"How are you feeling?" she asks with a smile.

He exhales deeply.

"Fucking peachy."

* * *

She isn't there the next time Grimmjow finds himself in the emergency room.

It isn't the first time this has happened. Rarely, he would come very shortly after her normal shift, or she would simply be working a different shift that day.

However, there is a distinctly different atmosphere in the emergency department of Karakura Hospital today. The silver-haired woman that often accompanies the doctor looks even more fraught than usual, which is saying something considering how she looks like she has a stick firmly lodged up her ass most of the time. The staff are glaring at him more than usual; there is an accusatory flavor to their scowls tonight.

He'd love to tell them what they can do with their silent arraignment, but for once, he thinks better of burning bridges.

He resists the urge to sling vitriol towards the creepy guy who's attending to him now. Predictably, his willpower doesn't last too long.

"We'll need to keep you overnight to ensure the lesion doesn't worsen, Mr. Jaegerja—"

"Piss off."

His lack of vitality and his weakened state become palpable when he departs. He's only ever had this problem when Tits McGee wasn't there.

"Shit, doc," Grimmjow mutters under his breath as he heads to the curb and mounts his motorcycle. The throbbing in his back is proving to be more of an obstacle than he thought it would be.

He drives off, ignoring the uncomfortable pang in his chest.

* * *

Grimmjow plays it particularly safe the next two weeks. Admittedly, work is slow during this time to begin with — his general instructions were to lay low. Aizen is planning something, but is keeping remarkably mum about it.

He sticks close to the unassuming warehouse on the outskirts of town that he dares to call home. It's a legitimate business for all intents and purposes of the law. On the surface, the underlings assemble and ship aircraft parts, or some stupid shit like that. Beneath his veneer of calm and collectedness, Aizen resents still needing to operate within the confines of the law in any respect; it's what Grimmjow has long suspected would be his undoing, but that prediction has yet to yield any fruit.

Despite his contempt for the man himself, Grimmjow respects his operations. He doesn't know what Aizen's ultimate goal is, and it's certainly not bribery and money laundering for the sake of bribery and money laundering; he's too smart for that.

Grimmjow doesn't think about it too much. No matter what, it sure as hell beats spending his days behind bars in an American prison.

He gets back from his night ride, ready to pass out, and makes his way past every annoying underling that still roams the halls at this hour. He's about ready to hit the floor when he finally makes it to his room.

To his surprise, Nell is waiting nearby, as if she knew he'd come around this time.

He groans.

"Jesus Christ, what do you want this time?" he all but bellows out.

She takes a step toward him; the moonlight beaming through the window highlights her facial tattoo.

"You haven't been around much lately."

"Sorry, Mom, I'll fucking be back home before dinner next time."

"Don't be like that. You'll jeopardize all of us if you keep going off on your own," she says sternly, arms folded across her chest.

"Don't you have something better to do? Like taking it in the ass from Nnoitra or something?"

She hardly flinches. Hardly. Her eyebrows knit together in a hard mix of disappointment and exasperation.

"I won't dignify that with an answer." She moves closer to him. "Look, I just know you're just doing something...wrong. I won't tell you to stop, but watch your back, okay? You never do, and I don't want us stuck paying for your mistakes again."

Grimmjow snorts and turns away from her. "I could say the same to you."

Nell sighs. "You could."

He's had enough.

"Well, if that's all you have to say to me, you can fuck off now."

She moves to leave, opening her mouth as if to say something — before thinking better of it and disappearing into the shadow around the bend.

* * *

There really was nothing he looked forward to doing more on a Saturday night than being here for some dumbass fucking meeting. Really, nothing. It isn't like he could be out doing legitimately _anything else_. There's that weird peep show joint that opened up the next town over. Hell, just a nice ride on some random backroad right before dawn...that would've been the shit.

He realizes he must be in pretty bad shape if he's pining to do lame shit like that.

Grimmjow gives a knowing nod to the guard at the gate as he approaches the plot of land. He pulls up next to the warehouse and kicks the motorcycle's stand before disembarking. Cradling a cigarette between his fingers, he surreptitiously enters the building through an inconspicuous side door towards the back of the building, whereupon he makes his descent towards the uppermost level and into the meeting room.

The higher-ups, known casually as the Espada because of Aizen's conspicuous raging hard-on for anything remotely Spanish (seriously, Grimmjow would love to know the story behind that), are gathered around the table in the only room in the warehouse that could pass for a formal conference room.

"It's come to my attention that some among us are seeking medical attention beyond the confines of the organization. As you may recall, there was unanimous agreement that we would keep all third parties _out_ of this particular domain," he says, his voice betraying no threat or malcontent.

"In light of this, we have expanded our medical staff. I trust that you will find yourselves seeking out their aid in the future." Aizen's words are measured as he makes direct eye contact with Grimmjow.

A susurrus of uneasy whispering sweeps through the group before they quickly quiet down once more.

"That will be all." Aizen flashes a brief glance at Ichimaru before averting his gaze back to his subordinates. "I will not repeat myself regarding this matter."

Grimmjow is on his way out before the words are finished leaving Aizen's mouth. His suspicions are confirmed; his time would've been way better spent shoving bills in a stripper's thong. He digs out a match from his pocket and lights the cigarette he'd been fidgeting with for the duration of the meeting.

He refuses to let Nell's concerned gaze penetrate him.

* * *

Despite his natural inclinations, Grimmjow heeds Aizen's threat and keeps to his own territory. The only change is that he finds himself more guarded — just as reckless, yet a little more cautious when it comes to altercations. He doesn't know who the newcomer is, but if they're anything like Szayel, he would like to stay as far away from them as humanly possible. (Or inhumanly possible, if they're really that bad.)

It's ultimately for the best; whatever thing he'd had going on with the doctor back at that hospital had been fucking stupid. Granted, "fucking stupid" seems to be his modus operandi these days, a fact which he still refuses to fully acknowledge. In any case, he can now allow himself to be disgusted with the fact that he needlessly put his neck on the line simply because he knew she'd work her weird voodoo and somehow make it better. He's disgusted with _her_ for being such a goddamn airhead and being stupid enough to think she could somehow foster a doctor-patient bond with someone like him.

The thought of it is enough to make him cringe as he counts his cash for the week. He needs to buy a pack or two or twenty of cigarettes, and the thought of getting to leave this hellhole early tonight is enough to put a satisfied smirk on his face.

Grimmjow turns the corner, still fishing for his keys in his jeans pocket.

A flash of auburn jumps out to him against the dreary backdrop of the grey corridor.

The familiar sight triggers a chain reaction in his mind. The doctor is here.

They both stop dead in their tracks, and she looks like she just saw a ghost. He imagines he looks much the same.

"Mr. Jaegerjaquez?" she murmurs; it's somewhere between a question and a statement.

"You," he says dumbly, his neck muscles tensing. He's less concerned with her physical presence than the conclusions that are quickly clicking together in his head.

No _fucking_ way. So that's why he wasn't ripped to shreds after violating a very clear order issued by Aizen himself. The bastard had been keeping tabs on both him and the woman the entire goddamn time.

He finds himself having to physically bite his tongue and clench and unclench his fists in his pockets to prevent himself from losing all of his shit — and, subsequently, signing off on his own death sentence. Her welfare isn't his primary concern, or even his secondary — hell, not even tertiary — but what he takes the most offense to is being used and fucking _spied_ on without the slightest indication of what was occurring.

He can't really guess at why Inoue is being singled out among all the doctors out there. Aizen is very obviously keeping mum about it, but he clearly knows something that the rest of them don't.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he says harshly, making every attempt to monitor his volume ( _a herculean task if there ever was one_ ). No one else is sauntering around at the moment, but he still doesn't want to rouse the attention of anyone who happens to pass by.

She squares her shoulders; she's clearly trying to be brave, which is absolutely fucking fruitless considering the type of people she's surrounded by. Gone is her typical good humor — it's not what he likes to see, but at least she isn't completely tone deaf.

"I'm a physician here now." Inoue grips the hem of her skirt and lifts her eyes to meet his gaze. "I didn't know that this is where you worked."

Well, that's an interesting choice of words. If she's trying to skirt around the topic, she's doing a pretty bad job of it.

Grimmjow grips the inside lining of his pockets and acquaints himself once more with the sight of the ceiling, as he's done in many a flummoxing situation before this. After gaining an eloquent idea of how he wants to respond to that, he looks back down at her.

"That's nice. Except it doesn't answer my goddamn question. I don't suppose Aizen just put out some 'help wanted' signs, or did he?"

She meets his eyes courageously — he didn't think she had it in her.

"Why don't you ask him?"

Her words are razor sharp, all the more so when they hardly sound like they emerged from her own mouth. Her eyes glint defiantly, beckoning a challenge from him.

If it's a challenge she wants, it's a challenge she gets.

He was never terribly skilled at controlling his temper, and in this instance it's only exacerbated by the fact that he is, above all else, caught off guard — by the very fact that she's here, by her cheekiness, by the rapidly encroaching question of what this even means as far as Aizen's concerned.

Her initial moxie all but disappears, replaced by what appears to be dread. She doesn't look away; he'll give her credit for that. She's backed against the concrete wall, her fingers grazing it ever so lightly. She looks sufficiently afraid, but to seal the deal, he grabs the collar of her shirt and gets close enough to hear her pulse.

"That's cute. You patch me up a couple times and you suddenly think you're hot shit." He tightens the hold on her collar and presses her harder against the wall. "Don't get ahead of yourself. I don't know why the fuck Aizen decided to rope you into this, but don't act tough. You're not in your element here."

The doctor finally breaks her eye contact, ostensibly buckling under the enormity of his presence. Satisfied with her reaction, he jerks her forward and releases her, leaving her to stagger back against the wall.

She gingerly strokes the column of her neck.

"You're lucky. I don't feel like makin' you talk...for now, anyway. Give me the attitude next time, though, and it won't go so well."

He leers at her — a warning.

"And you're gonna have to talk eventually."

She scurries off without another word, the sound of her flats tapping against the floor echoing throughout the empty hallway.

* * *

What he feels over the course of the next few days isn't exactly guilt, because the day he is beset by true remorse is the day he completely vanishes into the aether and ceases to exist, but it's close enough. Even beyond that, it's more irritating than he could've possibly imagined to be seen by her in this environment, of all places.

The lady was an integral part of his facsimile of normalcy. Not that normalcy is something he typically craves - the thought is enough to send a shudder passing through him — but even he can admit that it was nice to not have every waking moment devoted to the grimy feeling of working under The Holy King, His Prissiness, _Sir Aizen_.

And here she is now, so disjointedly sewn into this seedy hellhole. He'd lost his temper on her before (to his credit, she _had_ been testing him), and the shift in their dynamic has been painfully obvious. Gone is the wry banter, quietly replaced by nervous, stolen glances from the other end of the hallway.

He can't explain why the mere sight of her pisses him off now.

Maybe it's her; maybe it's here.

* * *

"Grimmjow."

His fellow Espada stops when he sees his daily target. What a surprise; as per usual, he's operating under the assumption that Grimmjow was just hovering in the hallway for the fuck of it.

Grimmjow had been willing to bet any amount of money on Ulquiorra hurling some misguided admonition his way today, and he can't decide whether he's dismayed or pleased at the immaterial bet paying off.

"Yeah?" He leans against the wall, rolling his eyes so hard that they may or may not fall out of his skull any given moment. "So, what has you shitting all over me this time?"

"The woman," his superior says curtly, still refusing to look him in the eye. "I've noticed the manner in which you've been harassing her."

Harassing? How fucking delightful. If what he was doing could even be remotely construed as harassment, he didn't want to think of how Ulquiorra would regard _real_ antagonizing.

He doesn't wait for his response and remains undeterred by the fact that Grimmjow has started walking away. "It would make your life easier if you refrained from burdening her with your presence...unless you happen to be within an inch of your life," he says. The implicit threat would be absolutely adorable if his arrogance didn't make Grimmjow want to send him flying into the opposite end of the solar system.

"Kiss my ass," he retorts, not even bothering to toss a condemnatory look over his shoulder. "She's your problem now anyway, ain't she?"

"Hn." Good old Ulquiorra is as eloquent as ever, Grimmjow's got to give him that.

"That's what I fuckin' thought."

The corner of Ulquiorra's lip twitches. "In any case, Aizen has warned against needlessly terrorizing the girl. It is in our best interest to leave her be as she works."

"Sure, sure. I don't see the problem as long as we don't kill her."

"That attitude happens to _be_ the problem."

Grimmjow isn't sure how much more he can take of this. This is seriously shaping up to be the worst fucking week of his life. All the hookers and booze in the world won't be able to numb the constant agitation of working with complete assholes day in and day out.

"I get it. Maybe go lecture someone else, because I think I've been pretty goddamn nice to her if you put me next to some of these guys," he spits.

Ulquiorra is quiet for a whole agonizing thirty seconds before he speaks again.

"I'll consider it."

It's code for "goodbye," and it's good enough for Grimmjow.

* * *

She becomes markedly more subdued; her stormy grey eyes lose some of their sheen, and the circles underscoring them become significantly more pronounced. He's sure that part of it is due to the unpleasant gravity of working in a place like this, but the more significant aspect of it is likely the fact that she's working pretty much two jobs now. The woman couldn't quit her day (night?) job, so as to avoid arousing suspicion, but was almost always on call for Aizen at any time of day that she wasn't at the hospital.

The logistics of it are enough to make his brain spark a little; he still resents her for refusing to divulge the terms of her and Aizen's "agreement." She won't talk, and no amount of dirty looks in her direction on his part is going to change that. He'll fight for the answers to his questions eventually, but for now, he'll (reluctantly) heed Ulquiorra and back off.

* * *

He's perched on the windowsill, enjoying the first (and only) night off he's had in a long time. He can't lie; he loves watching all the little peons catch sight of him before picking up their pace.

The sound of footsteps, quiet and uncertain, rouses him from his what would have been inevitable slumber.

"If you're trying to sneak around, you're doing a piss-poor job, doc."

He turns his head to look down at her, and she nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound of his voice. Understandable, given the culmination of their last real encounter.

"I wasn't," she offers meekly, curling an errant strand of hair around her finger. It'd be pitiful, if pity were a feeling he was at all familiar with.

"Walking around with your tail between your legs'll get you into some real trouble."

She says nothing, fidgeting with the buttons on her blouse with one hand and smoothing her long, prudish skirt with the other. It's a sorry sight.

Grimmjow raises an eyebrow.

"Jesus. You're not even going to try to get yourself out of this one?" he asks, only half-serious. Realistically, she'd be tits up down a river if she ever managed to get back to her real routine and jeopardize Aizen's endeavors. In fact, he barely even knows what qualifies as "this one," considering how he knows precisely jack shit about what's even going on anymore.

She looks at him with an expression nearly impossible to decipher. Yeah, she looks pretty bummed out, as he expected. Yet, there's a lingering paradoxical cocktail of defeat and defiance beneath that initial layer of melancholy.

She straightens her back and looks on ahead.

"It'll be fine," she says at long last.

The slight tremolo of the last syllable tells him that it's less a statement of fact, and more of a persuasive argument towards herself.

Dr. Inoue starts to walk away, wandering off to god-knows-where. It's none of his business, and quite frankly, he doesn't care much where she prances off to in her free time.

Grimmjow reclines further, lying down and staring at the ceiling. Even if she can be real annoying when she's in whiny bitch mode, he can't really blame her for however she acts while here. The benefits of working for Aizen aren't too bad for Grimmjow's ilk, but the place is a prison, plain and simple. He's in it right beside her. The only difference is that, for him, it's the best place to be.

The fact remains - she isn't going to last long at all here.

He takes the toothpick he had been cradling between his lips and breaks it in half between his fingers.


End file.
